


Faceless, Nameless

by hato



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7697995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He survived. And now he will find his way back to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faceless, Nameless

**Author's Note:**

> \- **SPOILERS** for Star Wars _Bloodline_ by Claudia Gray and Star Wars VII: The Force Awakens.  
>  \- _Nu_ is Rodian for _closemouthed_ or _quiet_. 
> 
> Because as much as I loved _Bloodline_ I can't leave it like that. And for frack, my fic enabler.

His transport crashes in the wastes of Aleen, leaving him lighter one leg, one hand, one eye and what he’s always considered reasonably good looks. He is the only survivor. A local scavenger finds him amidst the wreckage and drags him to the nearest town where the kindly doctor patches him up as well as the limited technology allows. For the next year he shuffles around the clinic and hides his malformed face beneath a deep hood. His days are filled with slowly healing flesh and constant adjustments to his crude prosthetics. He never gives his name and the aged doctor calls him Nu. When he’s finally well enough to work his way aboard a freighter, he takes the clothes on his back and his new name.

Aboard the freighter he patches together a cowl and face plate from a broken medical droid to cover his heavily scarred face. The irony is not lost upon him and he jumps in fear at the sight of his reflection, but he remains masked. Someone might possibly see through the disfigured flesh and recognize him. Not likely, but he’s learned caution the hard way and keeps his features hidden at all times as he shifts cargo and regains his strength and dexterity. Less than a year passes before his crewmates decide he’s expendable and leave him behind on Tattooine.

On Tattooine he works odd jobs to feed himself and purchase a salvaged Tusken Raider helmet to modify for his specific uses. He gains a reputation for a willingness and aptitude to fly anything he lays his hands on and for not asking questions. In between jobs he forces his maimed body through the forms and exercises he remembers from a lifetime ago-martial arts, firearms, staffs and blades- until he’s confident in his own defensive capabilities. 

Smuggling presents itself as a natural progression from two years of flying cargo all over the desert and a few neighboring planets that are about as hospitable. He joins a crew as a pilot and spends another year flying around the entire galaxy with dubious characters onboard and questionable items in the hold. He begins hearing about the infamous Resistance and their alleged leader, Leia Organa. He feigns disinterest and keeps his ears open, hungry for any information. Eventually, he runs into trouble with the militant leftovers of the old Empire; the sight of their ships through the port screen sends fury and fear in equal parts crashing through him. A bluff, a few quick maneuvers, and he escapes the First Order by the skin of his synthetic teeth. He uses the payment for this last delivery to buy an ancient Seltaya-class fast courier and a carbon colored Mandalorian helmet. He happily strikes out on his own. Smuggling small cargo and sometimes people, the occasional bounty, working for the highest bidder, but always on the lookout for Resistance ties. It’s a year before he’s made a name for himself, for efficiency and discretion, and finds himself within the good graces of several Resistance informants. A few he even remembers from his previous life, and he is so very, very careful to maintain his anonymity. For his sake, and theirs. 

He still takes on illegal goods and persons, keeping up the appearance of a cutthroat mercenary and smuggler. And if his jobs just happen to coincide with the locations of interest for the Resistance then no one notes it because the Resistance seems to be everywhere these days. Just like the First Order. He has a few more dodgy encounters with the armored thugs, but he makes it back to his Resistance contact each time to pass on pertinent information. It costs him his nearly new headgear and he makes do with a deep hood and wrappings until he finds an Imperial scout trooper helmet floating in the local water supply. With scorch marks on the dingy white surface, it is far from ideal, but he paints the squarish hunk of plastoid a dark brown and decides it matches his earthy patchwork uniform rather well. Of course, his paranoia never allows him to be bare-faced in company-rarely even in private- except in the Resistance medbay where he’s fitted with better quality prosthetics; his eye and leg, in particular, were in dire need of upgrading. 

He sees Leia Organa- General Organa to her troops- almost exactly five years to the day that he last saw her standing on the transport platform, his arms bound, her hand gripping his sleeve. She is striding across the apron, toward the underground bunker where the Resistance headquarters is situated amongst the twisted tree roots and lush plant life. He says nothing, only stares through his visor at her small figure; still commanding, still elegant. The years are marked on her, of course, but she is essentially unchanged from how he’s remembered her. She disappears into the earth and he goes back to his ship repairs.

He does not linger around the bases once he’s left planetside; he’s not stupid. But he does loiter more now, once he’s docked and debriefed and another mission doesn’t require his immediate departure. He visits the mess to talk to the one or two people he feels comfortable conversing with. Or plays sabacc with an old Togorian who seems to be one of Leia’s advisors but he’s never seen the battle scarred gentleman away from the gaming table. He spends more time in the hangar, repairing his fighter, listening and watching and catching glimpses of Leia as she talks to the pilots and mechanics. She even speaks to him from time to time, thanking him for his service and his bravery. He makes do with gestures and head motions, not trusting the voice modulator to hide his nervous joy for more than three consecutive words. It bothers him when she calls him Nu, except she says it with a slight lilt and arch of her brow that he refuses to acknowledge. 

He’s in the fields practicing with a modified Force pike when the Hosnian system is destroyed above him. The New Republic, gone in a flash. Everything he believed in, everything he and Leia had worked for, obliterated. The next day he sees Leia and her husband in deep conversation in the control center. He’s being briefed by Black Leader and can do no more than glance at the two whispering in the dark corner. He’s on the apron when the Corellian freighter returns with its passengers, though he stands apart from the welcoming committee. Rumors of General Solo’s death are confirmed as he watches Leia embrace the young girl, the Falcon’s new pilot. He wants to go to Leia, comfort her, but the war is not over and things need to be done. 

He returns from an escort mission a month later and Leia is there in the hangar, waiting for him. That familiar pose, arms crossed over her chest and her hair pulled up into the simple braided crown. And he knows that she knows and she doesn’t say anything as she turns on heel and leads him through the base to her private quarters. Once the door is locked behind them, he pulls off the scratched helmet and returns her guarded stare. Then she reaches up and touches his unmarred lips and he’s crying and she’s crying and they fall into a heap on her bedroom floor and she whispers his name against his shoulder.

“ Ransolm…” 

_end_

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks for reading, kudos, and comments!


End file.
